No charitable soule will once impart
One word of comfort to so sicke a heart;
85But as a hurt deare beaten from the heard,
Men of my shadow allmost now affeard
Fly from my woes, that whilome wont to greet mee,
And well nigh thinke it ominous to meete mee.
Sad lines go yee abroad; go saddest muse,
90And as some nations formerly did use
To lay their sicke men in the street, that those,
Who of the same disease had scapt the throwes,